


Host

by spacetart



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Biting, Bruises, Dubious Consent, Implied Necrophilia, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27771547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacetart/pseuds/spacetart
Summary: Nicholas deteriorates and Hedge takes advantage.
Relationships: Nicholas Sayre/Hedge, Sameth/Nicholas Sayre (implied)
Kudos: 3





	Host

A small sound, a whimper edged with pain, barely carried across the tent. Hedge paused in taking off his bandolier of bells and looked over at the cot where Nicholas Sayre, his "client", was resting. The boy wasn't much to look at these days. His previously healthy body, well-sculpted by cricket and other sports, was wasted away, and he had been losing his bright hair by the handful.

Hedge shook his head as he set his bells down in one corner of the tent, careful to not let one of them ring by accident. It wouldn't do to bring any Dead to the tent, especially with so many close by and his master so incapacitated.

He frowned as he thought of his part in the whole fiasco. He had confused Nicholas with another, Prince Sameth; now his master was trapped in a boy who did not even bear a Charter Mark. It took only a moment, barely even that, to cross the tent. Hedge looked down at the physical proof of his folly.

Certainly, the boy would be dead if not for that magical silver shard within him. Nicholas really needed a change of clothes, too. Like most Ancelstierran products, his clothing had rapidly disintegrated after he entered the Old Kingdom. The formerly fine shirt and pants were in shreds, exposing pale, almost translucent skin riddled with deep purple bruises. Nicholas was a product of Ancelstierre, Hedge suddenly thought, and chuckled. He had disintegrated as well.

It was a far cry from how he had been when Hedge had first met Nicholas. Nicholas had been confident, arrogant. He'd thrown the Prince's name around after he'd figured out that his Uncle's didn't have as much significance on the other side of the Wall.

He'd been so certain there was a scientific explanation for everything: Hedge's bells, the lightning that continually struck the work site, the shambling workers that he refused to believe were Dead. But then, Nicholas had never gone beyond the Ninth Gate and seen the spirits of the Dead rising into the sky.

Hedge's gaze flickered to the bandolier of bells, singling out the pouch that held Kibeth. He wondered if Nicholas was close enough to the River for the bell to work. Then he, lowly born Necromancer, would possess the greatest force of the Old Kingdom. Indulging himself, he toyed with the thought for several moments, then firmly dismissed it. Orannis' rewards would be enough for him.

Speaking of his master...

Hedge had done this before, stayed at Nicholas' bedside when he didn't have work to supervise. He would stroke the young man's hand for hours, luxuriating in the Free Magic that leaked from it. Now, spurred on by Nicholas' continuing comatose state, he lifted the hand to his lips and tasted the scar. It tasted of Free Magic, a white metallic taste on the tip of his tongue that made his jaw ache.

"You're a lucky man, _master_ ," he murmured, sneering the title. "Though I suppose you wouldn't agree with me." He touched his tongue to the scar again, swirling it over the blunt nail before biting down and sucking, as if he could draw the power out that way.

Nicholas moaned brokenly and turned his head to the side, opening weak blue eyes. "Hedge?"

"Shut up." Hedge let go of Nicholas' hand and let it dangle over the side. He moved onto the narrow cot, straddling the boy's hips.

Nicholas closed his eyes when Hedge ran a hand over his chest, skating over the bruises. "Sam?" He sighed, hummed a little under his breath, and visibly relaxed. "You finally came." He let his hand rest on Hedge's. "I missed you."

Hedge smiled. It wasn't a nice smile, but then he wasn't a nice man. Nicholas was tracing slow circles onto the back of Hedge's hand: a lover's touch, not a friend's. He'd had his suspicions about Nicholas and the Prince, despite Sayre's big talk about the 'debs' up in Corvere. With his free hand, Hedge pressed down on the edge of a large bruise that ran from just below Nicholas' nipple to the bottom of his sternum. The skin around it turned white under the pressure, then flushed red with blood again when he let up.

"Mmm. That hurts, Sam." He struggled to lift his head for a moment, then gave up. "Your stupid Old Kingdom's made an invalid out of me. You should meet my guide, there's a odd one if I ever saw it. A necro-whatsit."

The necromancer pressed down again, harder this time, and closer to the angry purple center of the bruise, digging his nails in a little bit. Nicholas' breath hitched, his hand stilled from its lazy circles, and he made as if to move away. "Don't," he protested weakly. "Don't do that, Sam. Hurts. Stop."

Hedge stopped. He placed his hand in the very center of Nicholas' chest and pressed down, hard. Nicholas sobbed, taking in a great wheezing breath that slowly dwindled to short, gasping pants as he grew weaker. Hedge kept pressing down, ignoring Nicholas' scrabbling hands until the boy's body went limp and his eyes rolled back into his head.

He pressed his ear against Nicholas' chest and listened to his weakly beating heart. He was alive, but still and pliant, just like the corpses Hedge had always been more comfortable with since he was very young. He ran a brisk hand down Nicholas' side, mentally counting the ribs, and let his hand settle above the prominent hipbone. He lay like that for a while, his head rising and falling with Nicholas' breath, but eventually the sound of Nicholas' heartbeat annoyed him. He lifted his head and bit at the edge of the bruise nearest to him, sucking the skin into his mouth. There were teethmarks, precise and deep, imprinted into the skin when he finally let go. A line of saliva stretched between his lips and Nicholas' chest, breaking as he pulled back further.

He ran a finger through the shiny wetness he had left around the teethmarks, outlining the shape of the bruise and the one next to it, dipping into the hollow between Nicholas' collarbones, and finally circling his Adam's apple. Perhaps, when this was all over, he'd bring this one back. Ring Kibeth and Dyrim and Saraneth, but keep Belgaer, the bell that restored independent thought, silent. It was an appealing thought and less dangerous, though just as self-indulgent, as the idea of controlling Orannis.

With a sigh, he sat up. His armor had pressed a pattern into Nicholas' skin, and the bite looked like it would bruise as well. He slid his thumbs underneath the boy's jaw and tilted his heads upward. He bent his head and lapped at the parted lips, then pressed inside, tasting the swollen gums and the dry roof of his mouth. He tasted of lime and smoke. Hedge pulled back, wary.

Indeed, tendrils of thick white smoke were beginning to pour out of Nicholas' mouth. Hedge quickly stood and moved away from the cot. If his true Master were to come calling, it would not do to have him find Hedge molesting his host. He lifted the tent flap and looked out for a moment at the legions of enscorseled Southerling Dead working on the site, then let it drop and waited for Orannis' command.


End file.
